Creepers (15 page)

I grabbed Margaret's arm, pulling her attention away from the map. “Margaret,” I whispered, as if the ivy might hear me, “look at the wall. Do you see the ivy?”

Margaret gasped and dropped the map. “Courtney, it's heading toward Prudence's grave.”

Its vines swarmed around the earth and wrapped itself, layer upon layer, around Prudence's tombstone. Thousands of quivering leaves reminded me of bees on a hive.

“What is it doing?” I asked. “Why is the ivy covering her tombstone?” I looked over to see where Mr. Geyer and his tour might be.They were hundreds of yards away to the north. No one noticed the rivulet of ivy that was flowing from our yard.

“It must be the witch!” Margaret exclaimed. “What is she trying to tell us?” Margaret sounded angry. The tinge of frustration that I had detected in her voice last night had returned.

That is when I saw her—a woman in black. Her cape undulated in the breeze behind her. She stood beside a willow tree near Prudence's grave. One hand rested against the bark of the tree. She watched calmly as the ivy smothered the tombstone.

“Margaret,” I hissed.“Do you see the witch? She's there!”
I pointed at the willow.

“I don't see her, Courtney,” Margaret replied, on the verge of tears. “But I do see the ivy. Why is she doing this now? She'll ruin everything!”

I looked at the witch and then at Mr. Geyer, only separated by a few hundred yards.
The ivy is in their blood
. At least, that's what Christian's journal claimed.
How could they not see the witch?
I realized that even though Mr. Geyer was facing Prudence's grave, he was really looking into the faces of the people he believed would help save the cemetery. And their backs, including Mom's and Dad's, were to the witch.

“What should we do, Margaret?”The ivy terrified me, but another part of me thought we needed to get a closer look. Maybe then Margaret would see the witch.

But we didn't get the chance. As soon as I finished speaking, a great clap of thunder seemed to rock the ground, and I cringed at the cold, hard rain that, within moments, stung my skin and drenched my clothes.

“Oh no!” Margaret yelled, running to the posters.Yet there was no where to protect them.

I looked for Mr. Geyer and saw him hurrying the crowd, making scooping motions with his arms as if the people before him were his confused flock. The kid in the Alice Cooper T-shirt looked oblivious and was still looking
around as he got caught up in the sweep of the crowd. Mom tucked her notepad under her shirt as she gave a tragic look to a willow tree that seemed to be shaking off the rain as the wind combed through its branches. Dad was hovering in back of a clutch of older ladies, who were struggling to open the compact umbrellas they kept in their purses. Everyone made a dash for their cars.

“Courtney! Margaret! Grab your posters and get in the house!” Dad yelled, suddenly at the front of the pack. His face was working its way through a series of expressions, the way it does when he gets anxious.

With my soggy poster in hand, I squinted against the pelting rain toward Prudence's grave. I was unable to see the witch anywhere, and the ivy that had entwined itself around Prudence's tombstone now lay in a smoking, shriveled pile like a bouquet of flowers left too long in the sun.

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting around the kitchen table, towels draped across our shoulders. Mom poured mugs of hot chocolate, which no one made a joke about despite it being August, because we were all goose-pimpled
and shivering. Dad turned off the air-conditioning as he rubbed the towel against his head. Mr. Geyer, his poofy collar flattened by the rain, stared into his cup. His glasses were fogged.

“Girls, you look like you've seen a ghost. Are you upset about the thunderstorm?” Mom asked as she took a seat and wrapped her hands around the warm mug. Her wet bangs were plastered against her forehead. When neither Margaret nor I replied, she added, “Summer thunderstorms are so unpredictable. I don't think it ruined the event, except for your beautiful posters.” She looked sympathetically at the warped posterboards by the window.

I shook my head. I glanced at Margaret, her green eyes looking large in her pale face. She was staring at the ivy that lay across the window panes, trembling beneath the lashing rain.

But Mr. Geyer said it. “Jen and Tom, are you spiritual people? Do you believe in the afterlife?” He removed his glasses to wipe them with a napkin and quickly put them back on, as if to see Mom's and Dad's reactions.

Mom's eyes widened. She looked at Dad, who leaned against the kitchen counter, blowing on his mug. His short red hair looked spiked after the rubbing he gave it. Another time, I would have laughed at the look on him, but not today. Dad lowered his drink slowly to rest it on the counter.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyebrows rumpled the way they do when someone tries to sell him something.

“Why don't you take a seat, Tom?” Mr. Geyer suggested. His voice was as warm as the chocolate. “I want to tell you and Jen a bit more about how my daughter and I got involved with the cemetery.” He looked at Margaret and smiled at her reassuringly. “Although we've known you all for only a short time, you have been good friends.”

Margaret and I shot a questioning look at each other. I wondered if Mr. Geyer
had
seen the ivy or the witch in the cemetery.

Dad grabbed his mug and pulled a chair next to Mom. She patted him on his knee as she spoke. “What is it, Christian? What else do you need to tell us?” She cocked her head, truly interested. She glanced at her notepad on the kitchen counter but stayed seated.

Mr. Geyer didn't tell them everything, but he told them enough. He told them about Prudence and her missing remains, about Christian's journal and his quest to bring his daughter back to life. And he told them about the ivy that had been carved in the basement last night practically at our toes. Mom and Dad both threw me a look but allowed Mr. Geyer to continue.

“After Christian died,” he finished,“that quest became a legacy for all of Christian's descendants, with one important
difference.We know that we cannot bring Prudence back to life. It would be . . .” He squinted behind his glasses as if the thought hurt him. “. . . sacrilegious to even attempt such a thing, and useless in the end, as Christian is dead. That is why we are bound to unite father and daughter, not in life, but in death.” Mr. Geyer paused to let this information sink in. Mom and Dad stared at him blankly. He cleared his throat to continue.“His descendants have been charged with burying them side by side. Only then can Christian and Prudence rest in peace and can their descendants live their own lives.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment until Dad blurted out, “You're kidding, aren't you, Christian?” Dad attempted a laugh. “It's a nice ghost story, but I don't think you need it.Your campaign—the history of the cemetery and Murmur, the stories about the stonecutters and those they carved for—is good enough.You don't want to scare people away with a tale like that.They'll think the story—”

“Farfetched?” Mr. Geyer interrupted. His voice suddenly sounded so tired. Margaret shimmied her chair closer to Mr. Geyer. Her green eyes were stern. She gave my dad a fierce look.

“This
story
is not a part of our campaign, Tom. I felt I owed you and Jennifer an explanation for recent events.”
Mr. Geyer raised his chin, the same way that Margaret did when challenged. “It would be dishonest of me not to tell you our secret. Not if I call you my friends.”

Then Margaret stood up. “I want to go home,” she declared flatly. Her whole body trembled.

“Wait!” I yelled, pushing my chair away to stand beside her. “If you don't believe Mr. Geyer, why don't you go into the basement to see the ivy for yourself!” I couldn't tell if I sounded angry or hysterical. I didn't want my parents hurting Margaret or Mr. Geyer.

Mom stood up next. “Let's do that,” she agreed.

Dad was silent, his features now a mask. He was more the scientific type, who liked to understand a theory. He shook his head. “All right. Let's go look at the basement, but I'm sure we will be able to come up with a reasonable explanation for
whatever
is down there.”

Margaret and I stood shoulder to shoulder, and she held my hand as we both listened to the adults walking down the basement steps. The duration of the squeals told us that they were taking the steps slowly. We both strained to hear their conversation when the creaking stopped, but all we heard was the soft rise and fall of voices aiming to be careful.

“Look at the ivy, Courtney.” Margaret pointed to the window. “Does it look to you as if it is shaking?”

Shaking, trembling. It was doing all of those things under the pounding it was taking from the rain. “I think it's just the weather, Margaret,” I replied.This time....

They were not down there long.We heard their weight press against the basement steps again, but this time faster. I pictured Mom taking the steps two by two.

“Courtney, why didn't you tell us about the ivy before?” Mom stood beneath the arch between the kitchen and the dining room. Her hand was splayed right above her heart. Her face was white.

I suddenly felt hot and shrugged. “I couldn't,” I replied feebly. “I was worried about today.”

Dad and Mr. Geyer appeared behind her. Dad ran his fingers through his wet hair, a gesture I recognized as a warning when he is frustrated. “I'm sure there is a way to explain this that takes it out of the realm of ghosts.” He was almost glaring at Mr. Geyer.

Mom turned to Dad. “The ivy wasn't there yesterday morning, Tom. I was in the basement, doing the laundry.” She reached for Dad's hand. “Christian, what does all this mean?” she asked. She glanced at me with one of her probing looks to make sure I was okay.

“The ivy, in whatever form it takes—plant or carving—is a sign,” Mr. Geyer rushed to reassure. “It won't hurt anyone, but I don't know yet why it has appeared this way.”

Dad raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but said nothing. He just shook his head. Mom turned around to confront Mr. Geyer.

“What or who is powering the ivy, Christian?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

“Someone who cared for Prudence and Christian, and had knowledge of the spiritual powers of nature, endowed the ivy to become the earthly manifestation of their life forces—their spirits. It's supposed to protect them where they rest and lead us to them.” This time it was Mr. Geyer who stole a glance at the ivy at the window. “At least, that's my hope.”

He did not mention the witch or my own personal encounters with the ivy in the woods. He raised an eyebrow at me. I passed. I was not ready to tell my story.

“Christian, I admit that the ivy carvings in the basement are a bit unusual, but do you really believe that there is some ghostly force behind them?” Dad asked. His arms were crossed now, the towel over his shoulders looking like a cape. At least he wasn't drumming his fingers the way he does when he can't hide his impatience.

“Not ghostly,” Mr. Geyer corrected in a friendly tone. “But spiritual. The forces are what you might call the life energies left behind when a person moves on to the afterlife. They are a cry for help, or perhaps a clue, made
by a being who has not completely given themselves up to the . . . beyond.”

Mom looked intrigued and worried at the same time. She had been biting her lip while listening to Mr. Geyer and Dad. “Is that the reason you are fighting for the cemetery? Because Prudence may still be there somewhere?” she asked.

Mr. Geyer nodded slowly. “Partly. I am hoping that Prudence and Christian are buried somewhere in those grounds. I also think it is important to protect all of those who are buried there and have been resting undisturbed. That land is sacred,” he added solemnly.

Margaret had tears in her eyes. She grabbed my hand under the table, making me jump in my chair.

“Courtney?” my dad asked. “What is it? Did you want to say something?”

“Yes,” I said. I hoped my voice did not sound as panicked as I felt. “I think we need to help Mr. Geyer and Margaret bring Prudence and Christian together. I know I want to help.What about you, Mom?” I asked, looking her directly in the eyes.

Mom looked at Dad and then back at me. “I believed that the fight to save the cemetery was a good one from the moment Christian told me about it,” she replied evenly. “I'm not as sure about what is going on in our basement,
but I'm going to trust you, Christian, that whatever is happening, it is benevolent.”

I flashed her a smile. “And you, Dad?” I was not ready to leave him off the hook.

He looked at us both, slowly shaking his head. “I do respect your dedication to your family's history and the history of Murmur, Christian.” Dad glanced back at the basement door and scowled. “However, I'm going to have to give some thought to what you shared with us today.” His face softened a little bit. “But if this search will keep that tenacious ivy from growing all over our house, then it might well be worth it.”

Mr. Geyer stood and then bowed slightly, as if he were still in his Puritan role. “Margaret and I thank you for your kindness and camaraderie. I think it's time we went home now, to change into dry clothes and to begin planning our next strategy.”

We all stood then and hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say.

“Christian, do you mind if I call on you if I have a few questions about my next article?” Mom asked.

“Of course not,” he replied warmly.